‘Day’s beginning or my own?’



Dayspring is slender, and moves
below the threshold of a sense,
touching other wordless origins
within its own: I cannot tell
which sense it wakes, and ask:

‘Day’s beginning or my own?’
No answer stands, beyond the mute
and single insight of shared dawn,
walking— light— until the weight
of pasts unworded crowd its gate.




A road assumed:
titles and first lines